


North (Northwest to Nowhere Remix)

by sheron



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 4 (2010), Friendship/Love, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17892059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron
Summary: Steve and Tony end up lost in the middle of nowhere, and Steve is struggling with an injury he received during their escape from AIM. What else could possibly go wrong? Unsurprisingly: a lot.





	North (Northwest to Nowhere Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Veldeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Northwest to Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456477) by [Veldeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/pseuds/Veldeia). 
  * In response to a prompt by [Veldeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/pseuds/Veldeia) in the [2019_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2019_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness) collection. 



> This is a remix of one of my favourite Steve/Tony stories by Veldeia, which I heartily recommend. I moved it over a universe from MCU to 616, and changed some things up. Also this is pre-slash, because I simply ran out of time. The setting is during the Avengers Vol 4. run featuring Commander Rogers and Tony without his memories of the last two years. Things between Steve and Tony are somewhat awkward, therefore.
> 
> Thanks to msermesth for helping with the story.

 

**Impact plus 4 minutes**

They end up in a rolling heap, tumbling gracelessly down the grassy incline in a rough landing that jars every bone in Tony's body. He has the presence of mind to unbuckle the parachute harness and shove it away to the side before it gets messy. By the time they roll to a stop, Tony lying on top of Steve, legs tangled together, Tony feels like all air has been punched out of his lungs. It takes him a few moments to get his bearings and understand that he'd gotten away with only scrapes and bruises this time. Several metal projectiles from the blown up AIM plane lie on the ground around them, smoking and charred, but thankfully they have avoided being hit. If only he still had his armor! Rain drops from the grey sky slide over his neck and down his three-piece suit. At least Steve's in his SHIELD uniform, sans any headgear.

Beneath him, Steve lets out a low groan, eyes squeezed shut. Tony feels his blunt fingers card through Tony's hair once — _of course_ Steve had tried to shield Tony in the fall, and take the brunt of the impact — as if checking for injuries, then, worryingly, Steve's fingers slacken and his hand slowly slips to the ground. He lays there prone, on his back, chest rising and falling in short little pants, expression tense. It couldn't be more clear that Steve is hurt, and hurt bad. With a burst of adrenaline at the realization, Tony rears up, wincing against all his bruises screaming at him at once. Okay, definitely bruised, hopefully not cracked, ribs. Not important.

He crawls off Steve, down to the wet, rocky ground, heedless of how the damp earth seeps into the pants of his business suit, and puts his hands to Steve's head, turning it to check for any injury. He finds no sign of blood, just matted blond hair. He checks the scalp for any bumps and finds none either. As he proceeds with his careful ministrations, Steve finally cracks open his eyes, sky blue irises peeking through the slits staring up at Tony.

"Hey," his voice is gravel low, "You okay?"

"Am _I_ okay?" Tony snorts. "Where are you hit?"

"My shoulder." Steve winces, as if he doesn't like to admit to it. Well, tough. 

Tony examines his upper body, arm out to shield Steve's head from the rain. "I don't see—In the back?" 

Steve gives a minute nod. "The bullet must still be inside." Damn. When they'd taken the plunge off the plane, just before it blew up, Tony had heard shots but he'd assumed they'd been lucky. Of course, when have they ever been lucky like that? And AIM had had armor piercing rounds, or it wouldn't have gone through Steve's suit. It might not be the Captain America suit that Tony used to design for him, but SHIELD engineers are no slouches either and have borrowed a lot from his designs. Commander Rogers has as much protection as his uniform style allows. And if he hadn't put himself between Tony and those bullets, he wouldn't have gotten hurt. Tony shoves that thought down and away, into the dark recesses of his mind. He has to help Steve first, wallow in guilt later.

"Okay, we need to roll you over—"

"We need to find cover." Steve argues immediately, even as drops of rain land on his forehead. "No, don't—" he catches one of Tony's hand reaching for his shoulder. His cold fingers squeeze Tony's wrist, stubborn jaw locked and flinty eyes catching his. "If they had backup, we'd best not be in this spot when their buddies come looking. We have to move."

"Do you really think anyone could find us in this?" And it's true, with the wind picking up in the last dozen minutes, the visibility has started to drop significantly. What had been a slow and gentle rain is gathering strength. Tony doesn't like it, and not just because his business suit offers almost no protection against the water sluicing down his back. He isn't dressed to be traipsing around Northern Lapland, or wherever they are. But the one blessing of the weather turning sour is that they're hidden from any enemy searches or satellites, and the rain will likely cover their tracks. Nobody could have survived the explosion of that AIM plane. Steve and Tony had made it out in the last possible moment as it was. Steve is right though — they can't risk sticking around for any search parties, not with Steve injured and Tony without the Iron Man armor. He hasn't got his phone or his watch either. At most he's got a damp credit card in his back pocket, that'll likely never work again after this downpour. All they have is whatever is in the small survival kit that came attached to the parachute, and Steve's injury is the pressing concern. 

"Okay, up and at them." Tony tries to steel his voice so that Steve can't see right through him to all the million concerns whirling through Tony's head. Their exposed position, inability to navigate in the oncoming storm, Steve's injury— Tony scrambles to his feet and puts a hand out to Steve to help him rise. Steve looks at his hand for a long moment, and just as Tony's heart behinds to sink, Steve grabs hold of it with his good hand, and lifts himself up. Steve's expression is stoic but Tony sees him go a few shades paler and he slumps briefly before steeling his spine.

Tony takes a peek at his back, at the small hole in the shoulder and feels his insides clench nervously. Steve is bleeding hard enough that even the downpour is not enough to cover up the smell of blood that hits his nose. Tony remembers seeing a tree-line a few miles away before they jumped, he just doesn't know in which direction, and with the rain reducing visibility like this not even Steve with his eagle-eyed sight could spot it. They can't be walking with Steve bleeding out, they have to bandage him here and now.

Tony goes for the survival kit, wincing when bending down to grab it makes his ribs scream. If he was having more trouble breathing he would assume they were broken, as it is, he staggers back upright with a wince and draws a careful but unrestricted breath.

"You're hurt," Steve says, one hand clenching his own shoulder as if to push back the pain.

"Just bruises." Tony wipes at the hair plastered to his forehead, and peeks into the box. "A compass!" he remarks happily, and sticks the device in his pocket where it would be safe from the rain. The rest of the contents disappoint, however. There isn't even a hint of first-aid. "Fish hooks, matches and a knife." He picks up the two inch blade and studies it thoughtfully. In no way is this a tool he'd want to use to dig the bullet out of Steve, especially in these conditions. Steve must read his thoughts on his face because he immediately says, grimly,

"It's best to leave the bullet in. Even if I heal up around it, they can do the surgery when we get home. I'll be fine. We have to find cover, Tony, or we're just as likely to freeze to death." Feeling the cold rain sluice off his face, Tony can't argue with that.

"We're gonna bind the wound before we do any walking." Tony ignores Steve's frown. He pulls his own jacket open and uses the knife to hack off the lower portion of his white office shirt, folding the material in four to create a compress. "It's not sterile, but—" he shrugs. Steve nods his acceptance. 

Tony already taking off his tie, winding its silky length around his palm. "Let me see." Steve must see his reasoning because he just turns in place to let Tony have a closer look.

There's a large dark stain high up on Steve's shoulder. Tony bites his lip and presses his makeshift compress to the wound, binding it swiftly. They'll have to rely on Steve's serum for the healing factor, hope that it takes care of any bacterial infection, and worry about removing the bullet later once they're back to the civilization, but at least Steve wouldn't be bleeding out in the meantime. It's still going to suck having to walk like this. Steve isn't showing it now, but for all that he likes to pretend to be invincible, he bleeds like any man.

In his head Tony sees the newspaper clipping, Steve on the courthouse steps, bleeding to death, and he forces himself to blink that image away, to stay in the present. None of that now.

Steve talks while Tony bandages him up. "We should head north. I think I saw some cottages that way before we jumped. A small village. We might be able to find some help."

"How far?" Tony asks, because he was busy not dying at the time and didn't get a good look.

"A day. Maybe less."

For the first time, Tony allows himself a moment to truly look around at the flat landscape surrounding them. There's an outcrop of trees somewhere in the distance. Otherwise, they are out in the open, which is concerning, but he can't hear any unnatural sounds, and the air is just rain, falling down from the dark sky in large wet plops into the puddles forming on the ground all around them. Rain drops sprinkle the top of Steve's short-cropped hair, not yet completely wet but getting there.With Steve's injury bound up, Tony leaves him, walking over to where their parachute is lying in a dark-grey tangle on the ground. He squashes the immediate urge to wrap it around himself and bundle up. With the rain, the temperature is low and getting lower as the evening progresses. His hands are already freezing, but Steve's the one who lost blood and who is shivering where he stands.

He pushes the parachute at Steve. "C'mon, let's drape it over ourselves." Steve gives him a sharp look and Tony freezes, a sudden thought occurring to him. Steve might not want him that close by. Things like that keep surprising him, still, the two-year gap of memory a locked door between their relationship as Tony remembers it and the way Steve looks at him now. That cool evaluating look in Steve's eyes pierces him through the heart.

Before Tony can back off, Steve sighs and complies with his request, draping half of the parachute around himself and holding it above his head as a barrier against the storm, wincing when movement jars his bad shoulder. There's resignation in his expression which is almost as painful as the cool distance from a moment ago. Tony almost steps away and lets him have the entire thing, but Steve tugs him in. They shuffle a bit to find their position shoulder-to-shoulder. "North?" Tony says, peeking at the compass. 

"Yes," Steve says curtly. It is probably just the conditions, but Tony feels as if the curtness is a rebuke to him. They are silent as they set out. Tony is dwelling on the way Steve sounds and feels so...distant these days. He's been working with SHIELD, running some sort of Black Ops team that makes Tony vaguely nervous when he has time to think about it. When they are in the Tower together, Steve makes every attempt to be polite. But that's all it is, politeness. The simmering awkwardness underlies all of their interactions and there's nothing Tony can do to cure it. In fact, trudging through this wilderness is the closest he's come to spending any time alone with Steve since Vanaheim.

A part of Tony can't help grabbing hold of that idea: this is his opportunity to spend some time with Steve. A bit of male bonding. They can laugh about this later.

They never laugh anymore. Raindrops slide down his face and he thinks about casually bumping into Steve, just a momentary touch of comfort with an old friend. In years past, Steve would have welcomed the gesture, he would have bumped Tony's shoulder right back and the curl of the corner of his mouth would state his feelings clearly on the matter, even as he stared straight ahead into the distance.

But that's in the past now, and their future is not clear.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 3 hours**

Tony wouldn't mind a bit of conversation, but clearly Steve is otherwise inclined. They've been walking for hours, keeping a fair pace, all in silence. Thunder echoes somewhere far in the distance. The rain has let up some, so at least it's more of an annoyance now than a serious hindrance. His feet are screaming at him, but obviously it's nothing compared to walking with a fresh bullet wound. Steve's doing admirably well with that, marching along. A real trooper. They're obviously not going to make it to the distant village before nightfall even at this brisk pace, though. The sun is already rolling behind the treetops and Tony is starting to give some serious thought to looking for a place to bunk for the night. There are sparse pine trees sprinkled through out the landscape here and there, but it's otherwise flat, and their branches hardly provide any cover. In the distance there is some sort of a more substantial forest-line; perhaps they could find cover there.

Suddenly, Steve's foot catches on one of the larger stones under his feet and he nearly goes down. Tony catches him with a hand under the elbow, helps him back upright and peers into his face. It's washed out grey in the lingering twilight of the day, and his mouth is pinched tight with pain. It isn't like Steve to be clumsy, either.

How much blood did he lose? 

"Shoulder hurts?"

Steve winces and starts to shrug but visibly aborts the motion. "Doesn't matter. Can't stop here."

The rain picks that moment to intensify, thunder echoing closer, it's getting dangerous to remain out in the open flat land. Tony rubs his freezing hands together.

"Looks like Thor agrees with you," Tony says wryly. 

"Could use the big guy here," Steve admits. He's three shades too pale. Tony glances at him side-ways, debates offering his elbow to lean on and the awkwardness that'd cause. He's not ready to risk it. Let Steve ask for it. Ha! Steve would never ask for his help; Tony doesn't need to be a genius to know that.

"If I had something more than twigs to work with, I could build some sort of a communicator."

"That cabin there might have something you can use." Steve points.

Tony squints ahead. And yeah, okay something finally went their way: through the sheet of rain he begins to discern the grey shape that is a cabin on the edge of the forest-line. He wouldn't have seen it that far ahead without Steve pointing it out. "Alright!" Being around Steve is nice, but considering how cold they both are thanks to the weather, not quite nice enough. Without having to talk about it, they both pick up the pace. The ground is slick with mud, so they have to look where they're going, but the sight of the cabin jolts some energy into Tony's tired muscles. It takes Tony a while to realize that he's actually slowing his steps to make sure Steve can keep up. He throws a side-glance at Steve again, but it's hard to see in the dusk; the sun has disappeared behind the horizon a while ago. Once they get under a cover, he's going to ask to take a better look at that shoulder. 

There's no hint of smoke coming from the chimney of the cabin when they get to the front door, and the view inside looks dark through the single window. Tony pounds on the door just in case, before pushing it open to reveal a single unoccupied room. He startles when Steve slumps against the doorway next to him with a whoosh of air.

"Well," Tony says, so he doesn't find himself nagging Steve. There's nothing he can do about that injury yet. "Looks like we lack electricity but we've got a wood stove." There's a stack of logs in the corner. The matches in the survival kit might come in handy after all. The other half of the room is occupied by a wooden bedding area, thankfully with a stack of dark grey wool blankets laying in the corner. The place looks well-maintained and clean, if exceptionally rustic. "Get your clothes off," he says, going to the wood-burning stove to get started immediately, and shrugging out of his soaked-through jacket on the way.

"I expect dinner first," Steve murmurs, a tinge too quiet.

"I'm not sure we're eating until tomorrow, unless you like to nibble on those blankets. I sure could use a drink of water." He caught some rain in his cupped hands to wet his parched mouth earlier, but it was barely enough.

Steve doesn't respond and when Tony glances up from where his hands are busy with the stove, Steve's gingerly tugging his uniform off. It looks sticky and unpleasant, and Steve's expression is pained. "Give me a moment and I'll help you with that."

"I'm fine," Steve says in resigned tones, and resumes tugging at the uniform. Of course, the perfect Commander Rogers wouldn't deign to admit a weakness, especially if it meant Tony could actually help him.

With a touch of pique, Tony shoves the last log in place into the happily dancing flame inside the stove and goes over to him. 

"Here, I can—"

"No, I've got it—"

"Steve, let me—"

A sharp gasp of pain makes Tony stop and back off. He'd tugged too hard and caught Steve's injured shoulder. "Sorry," he says, and turns away.

"'S okay," Steve says quietly. In the silence of the room, only the pitter-patter of the rain outside echoes loudly against the roof, but it doesn't quite hide the strained quality of Steve's breaths.

No, it's not okay. Tony busies himself with spreading out one of the blankets on top of the bedding. They'll have to bunk side-by-side, but there's plenty of space and it's hardly the first time. It may be the first time recently though. Tony wonders at how they've spent more time alone together today than perhaps in the entire month prior. It's his fault; he's been avoiding speaking to Steve because lately all that wants to fly off his lips are apologies, and he doesn't even know exactly what he's apologizing for. Something terrible that's lodged in Steve's stare when those blue, blue eyes meet his, perhaps. Some memory like a splinter penetrating the tough-guy facade Steve wears so desperately these days.

His heartbeat speeds up, his throat tightens until he can barely swallow. He's not doing this. He's not. 

"What's your favourite side of the bed?" Tony jokes, without meeting the other man's eyes. He's got no time to dwell on the past. Only forward. He doesn't wait for Steve's answer. "There's enough materials here that I could probably rig something up, get the S.O.S to one of my satellites. Help could be here in a few hours."

"How would you get the signal out with that storm?" Steve pokes holes in his plan with a mildness that is irksome.

"I'll set up an antenna, climb the roof—"

"—and get electrocuted." 

Tony rolls his eyes. "What you want me to sit here on my hands and do nothing?"

"That'll get uncomfortable fast," Steve says, still entirely too reasonable, kneeling down on his half of the bedding, fiddling with the thick wool blankets. "You should get some sleep."

"You should get some sleep," Tony mimics childishly. Then he shakes his head. "Okay, you're right—"

"Really?"

"Save it," Tony says shortly, rubbing his cold hands together. "Right-ish. Let me look at your shoulder." The makeshift bandage made of a piece of his shirt and his tie has fallen apart when Steve took the uniform off. Steve must see the sense in his request, or he's too weary to argue, because he wordlessly shifts and shows Tony his shoulder-blade. The bullet entrance is a tiny round hole, angry red and still weeping blood in a slow trickle. By the time Tony gets the injury bandaged again, his shirt has lost another section around the midriff. The bandage is no good — the material is thin and damp from the rain and they are basically relying on Steve's serum to fight any infection — but it's better than letting the wound continue to bleed. Steve shudders minutely when Tony's fingers set the fresh cloth against it, and a grunt escapes his lips when the binding is set in place. The sounds of pain go straight to the cold pit in Tony's stomach. Still, if it weren't for the bullet inside, they could rely on Steve's super soldier genetics to heal a wound like this up within a day or so. If Tony did have any doubts about the strength of the super serum, nothing would have stopped him from working on getting Steve out of the wilderness and into the hands of a surgeon. 

Tony binds everything up tightly with his tie across and under Steve's shoulder and pushes Steve in the direction of the bedding. Steve groans low as he spreads himself out on the wooden platform, laying on the side that's uninjured, his back to the wall. He shuts his eyes briefly, as if gathering strength and then slowly pulls the blankets around himself. With the heat from the stove it's starting to get nice and cozy in the cabin. Tony sits down next to him, untying his shoes before he pauses and glances out the window. It's still raining, but maybe if he applied himself now to that transmitter, it could be live in an hour or two. He could climb the roof. The thunder seems to have moved further away. Water sluices off the windows of the cabin, but he's not sure if he should tempt fate by laying here in the warmth of a pile of blankets next to Steve. His fingers twitch and he is a second away from deciding to work on it despite the storm, when Steve's voice cuts through his thoughts.

"You want to go out in that?" A frown is clear in his words.

"It's not so bad," Tony says, even as a particularly vicious gust of wind rattles the door. He doesn't let his internal wince show on his face.

Steve's lips twitch, as does his brow. With a look of concentration he lifts his hand and pokes one blunt finger into Tony's ribs.

"Ow!"

"Yeah, ow," Steve says dryly. Point made, his hand lowers and hides under the thick blanket again, which he is drawing up to the chin. He seems to shiver. The blanket is large enough for several people, but somehow Steve manages to make it look tiny, like it's barely enough to cover his broad shoulders and biceps and thick thighs. He blinks slowly at Tony, eyelids fluttering as if struggling to stay open. 

Tony is starting to think that Steve could use more blankets and more warmth — he always has been more sensitive to the cold. If Tony drapes himself all over Steve's body— But that kind of thing isn't in the realm of the possible. Even if he is sure he could warm Steve up. Steve doesn't want him. He is counting his blessings that they can be here, like this, alone together and without conflict. It hadn't seemed possible just a month ago, but the trip to Vanaheim and the time they spent together there has healed some of the wounds. Tony dares to think, maybe this would be similar. Maybe if they could spend the night here, laying next to each other in peaceful silence— Maybe.

When Tony glances over his shoulder towards the door once more, Steve's hand snakes out and grabs his elbow, squeezing. The sentiment behind the gesture is clear.

"Okay, fine." They can rest until dawn and make it to the village Steve saw tomorrow morning. According to him it's only a few hours away, straight North of here.

Pulling his elbow out of Steve's hold, he tugs uncertainly at his collar, and Steve's eyes slip down to watch his throat with that same serious, calm expression on his face. Tony fights himself not to fidget. The atmosphere remains charged as he slips the remains of his damp shirt off his body and shrugs off his pants. The RT node on his chest draws Steve's eyes briefly, but his look is earnestly curious, and something inside Tony's chest relaxes, like a tight muscle finally set free. He shakes out a second wool blanket and slips underneath, next to Steve, not touching. He turns his eyes to the ceiling. 

"We'll make it to the village in the morning."

"Sure, Tony," Steve murmurs. When Tony glances his way, he sees Steve's eyes are closed, the golden lashes dusting his cheeks. Even in the bad lighting of the small cabin, his hair messy and a five-o'clock shadow of a beard on his cheeks, he looks so goddamn beautiful. His body is a work of art. And laying next to him brings with it an overwhelming sense of safety. Nothing is like it used to be, but this is still the same. Tony turns on his side, folding an arm under his head, so he can fall asleep while looking at Steve.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 6 hours**

Tony's not used to sleeping on a straight up wooden board instead of a bed with the best mattress money can buy, so despite his exhaustion he ends up twisting and turning several times during the night to find a different position for his limbs, such that his circulation wouldn't be cut off. Sure he's fallen asleep at his desk working before, but nobody ever said that was good for his back. As the hours of the night crawl by slowly, he feels both exhausted from the earlier long march to the cabin, and restless due to discomfort of all his bruises making themselves known when he can't find a position to accommodate them. It doesn't help that next to him, Steve occasionally twitches in his sleep, as if he's flinching away from something.

When Tony first registers it, he thinks Steve is having a nightmare, but then Steve's eyes slide open, blue peeking through the thin slits, making it clear he wasn't all the way asleep. The coals from the earlier fire in the stove and the moonlight outside are the only illumination in the room, but Tony knows Steve's face like the back of his hand. He'd know Steve by his earlobe, but the definition of his shoulders. Their eyes meet in the darkness, and something about seeing Steve like this, across from him as they both bed down for the night feels unbearably intimate and like Tony shouldn't have it. Tony quickly shuts his eyes. After that, he mostly pretends to be sleeping, regulating his breathing as much as he can. Even though he's trying not to let on how light his sleep is, it's unbearable to stay in one cramped position for too long though, so every once in a while he shifts, giving himself away.

Next to him, Steve flinches again, this time making a sound and Tony's eyes pop open despite himself. Steve's definitely awake, and his lips are pressed together in a tight line, something strained around his eyes. His fingers twitch around the covers they are grasping, squeezing.

"Shoulder bothering you?" Tony whispers into the night.

For a while, Steve doesn't reply, just looks at him and his blue eyes seem strangely uncertain. Tony progressively wakes up more, and props himself up on an elbow, half-sitting up. He can't keep the worry out of his voice. "Cap?"

"Back hurts," Steve admits curtly. Then grunts sharply, as a tremble runs through his entire body, visible even in the dark. His fingers twist the covers. Tony's eyes widen and he sits up completely. "Feels strange," Steve adds. "Like my shoulder's on fire."

This is weird. Tony expected Steve to be feeling better as the night progressed and the serum worked its magic.

"Let me see."

"When did you get night-vision?" Steve said instead of moving. His hand jerks again on the covers, like someone stabbed him and he didn't get a chance to cover for it. Because he has been covering for it, Tony realizes. This isn't a recent development.

"How long have you been feeling it?"

Steve is silent for a moment. "Since we jumped." Since he got shot. With one of AIM bullets.

"Holy shit," Tony gapes. "Why didn't you say something?"

"You couldn't have done anything."

"I could have dug the bullet out!" Tony practically yells in his face, scrambling upright and off the wooden platform they've been using as a bed. He goes to search for the knife they have, because he sure as hell not leaving the bullet inside Steve when it's _poisoning_ him.

"Tony. _Tony_." Steve's voice is weary, but it's a clear protest.

"What, were you going to _lie_ there until it overwhelmed the serum? Is that what _the plan_ is, Commander?"

"I'll be fine," Steve says, too calmly. He only gets that calm when it's deadly serious. "In a few hours it'll be dawn. You'll head to the village, get help."

Tony goes cold at the inherent implication. Steve's not saying "we". His hands wrap around the pen knife and he turns to watch Steve lie quietly on the bedding and suffer.

"Just how much is it hurting you?"

"It's some kind of a neurotoxin," Steve says instead of a direct answer. "AIM had those guns we saw in the photos before the mission. Their new R&D project." Bad; this is very bad. Tony's no chemist, but he knows the symptoms: nausea, horrific cramping and pain, possible paralysis. If Steve's respiratory system becomes affected and he stops being able to breathe on his own, there'll be nothing Tony can do to save him. The world tilts, and then rights itself again, reforming around this new knowledge. He clenches the handle of the knife in his hand.

"Alright, turn around. The bullet is coming out."

"No." Steve says implacably. "You can't touch it."

"I sure as hell can!" Tony says, sitting down next to him and, after a moment's hesitation, places a careful hand on his shoulder. To his horror, he can actually feel the minute trembles running through Steve's body under his hand. "C'mon. I'm not a doctor, but I promise, I'll be gentle." 

Steve's lips twitch at the innuendo, but he doesn't move. "If you move the bullet, there's a good chance you'll off-gas the toxin. I can't risk it."

Tony stares. He stares some more. He can't help a well of warmth spreading in his chest. In a tiny voice he says, "That's why you didn't say anything? Because..."

"Because I have enough on my hands keeping you from climbing the roof and getting electrocuted in a storm." Steve says it with a wince, like it's an actual job of his that he's been putting a lot of effort into — keeping Tony out of trouble and alive. Tony's whole body flushes with unexpected pleasure mixed with equal parts exasperation. 

"Steve, I—"

"It's not a problem."

"Not a problem?" Tony says. "What, you think I was _thanking_ you?" Steve blinks at him. Tony snarls, "You asshole."

Instead of taking offense, Steve's expression goes so soft, Tony's heart tumbles, twists in his chest. The look is downright affectionate. All day he'd thought that Steve was mad at him, that their relationship was teetering on a brink of another terrible blow-up, and all day Steve had been thinking of him, silently protecting him. His standoffishness had been Steve trying to keep him from figuring out as much, and he's both mad, impressed and feeling foolish for ever doubting him. In other words, Steve makes him feel a thousand things at once, as usual.

The next second Steve's face twists, pain like lightning striking through him and he gasps, straining against it for a drawn out moment. Tony forgets his anger, sets the knife aside and simply sits next to him, one hand laying against the skin of Steve's arm. He feels utterly helpless as Steve shudders and groans before the wave passes and he is left panting weakly. It's clearly getting worse.

"How is your breathing?" Tony asks, because he has to make sure before he does what he has to do next. Leave Steve. He has to go find help. He can't wait until morning.

"Okay so far." Steve says a tad breathlessly, but that's from the earlier attack of pain. 

"Nausea?"

Steve inclines his head once, eyes sharply watching Tony. "What? What are you thinking?"

"I have to go, Steve," Tony answers reluctantly. He hates this. His mind is painting a picture of all the things that can go wrong while he is gone. "I need to find help."

"It's the middle of the night. In what universe is that a good idea?"

"In the universe where you're shot up with a neurotoxin, which also happens to be ours."

"Tony—"

"Steve!" 

They stare silently at each other. Steve tries to rise, which proves to be a mistake. He slumps almost immediately back down on the bedding as another wave of pain wracks his body. It's nearly impossible to watch him overcome with weakness. "Don't go," Steve pushes through clenched teeth. "Don't. Tony—"

"You'd do the same for me." Tony whispers. Not waiting for a response, he goes over to where he's spread out his clothing and pulls it all back on, still damp and unpleasant against his skin. The rain outside has stopped, and even if it hadn't, he only has one choice. When he is dressed, he walks back over to where Steve is lying, watching him with a despondent look on his face. Tony comes back closer, feeling torn. His heart clamors to stay here and watch over Steve, make sure he is alright. The last thing he wants to do is abandon him. But Tony's brain is telling him that's a fool's hope, that he needs to go _now_. He shouldn't have spent the last couple of hours sleeping, he should have gone straight on to the village. He swallows thickly and grabs the compass off the table. For a long moment he hesitates, then strides over to Steve and leans down. Presses a kiss to Steve's brow while Steve blinks owlishly at him. Tony can't explain to him how hard it is to leave him. "Just... stay here. I'll be right back."

Steve's expression closes off. He turns his face away.

Tony throws him one last desolate look, and leaves the cabin.

Outside, the ground is muddy and wet, but the rain is now barely a drizzle. The sky is starting to brighten from the utter darkness of the night, but it'll still take a while until the sunrise. Tony squints at the compass and picks out North. Then he starts to run.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 7 hours**

 

His temperature climbs up over the next hour, and eventually Steve throws off the woolen blankets. The cool air brings relief only for a short while. Soon, he is hot even laying there with his skin bare, sweat breaking out on his brow. His head is swimming dizzily. He's thrown up at some point, not much since he hasn't had anything to eat all day, but the smell is making his nausea worse and the acid is stinging his throat.

If he'd been stronger, he could have gone with Tony. He's weak as a kitten though. His shoulder throbs incessantly, like someone is twisting a hot poker there. For a moment Steve's eyes light up on the knife Tony left behind. He could dig the bullet out himself. It's not like he could make things any worse. He calculates the distance between him and the blade lying on the far side of the wooden platform. Three feet. Easy.

Steve rolls over and tries to get up, falls back down. He slowly gets his arms and knees under him, trying to scramble over there, but it's like his limbs refuse to work. He slumps face down on the platform, cheek up against the wood.

He lies there alone, in the dark. Utterly helpless. Tony's gone and who knows when he's even coming back. How long Steve will lie here, getting steadily sicker and weaker. There is nothing Steve can do about the next wave of pain that washes over him.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 8 hours**

Everything is fire. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to go back to his memories from before. He thinks he sees the Red Skull hover over him, grinning, laughing at Steve's feeble attempts to keep drawing in oxygen. The air is like sand. He can't breathe. He can't breathe! He is drowning in the hot molten metal all around him.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 9 hours**

He feels cool hands on his forehead. "Easy, easy," a familiar voice says, through a buzzing hum that fills Steve's ears. There are people around him, talking, but when he opens his eyes for a moment he doesn't recognize the face bent over him. Then it resolves into Tony, blue eyes huge and sorrowful staring down at Steve. Steve gasps his name on the level of a breath. Tony slides a piece of cool wet cloth over Steve's lips, wetting them. It's like nirvana amid a firestorm.

"We're taking you home," Tony tells him. Steve strains to hear him. "Almost there. Just hang on a little longer."

The whining noise he'd been hearing is the sound of Quinjet engines, too low for regular humans to hear. His head is still aching like mad, and his limbs feel like jello, but the burning sensation in his skin has subsided.

"You were gone," he pushes past his cracked lips.

"I'm here now." Tony answers immediately and grabs Steve's hand. "I'm not leaving you again."

Tony puts the cool cloth against Steve's cheek, slides it over his jaw and then his brow, leaving soothing wet trails on his skin. Someone comes close and an injector is depressed into Steve's neck. He fades out.  


 

* * *

 

**Impact plus 36 hours**

"How's the shoulder?" Tony says from the hospital room doorway.

"Better," Steve says, turning to him. He _looks_ better. Color is back to his cheeks, and he's sitting up in his hospital bed under his own power. For a little while there, the neurotoxin had inhibited his movement completely and he had to be put on a ventilator. Seeing Steve laying there, helpless, lips tinted blue from the lack of oxygen, filled Tony with a sort of distant horror. He doesn't need to remember the last two years to know he never, ever wanted to see Steve that close to death.

But with the bullet surgically extracted and proper treatment administered, the serum is able to fight off the remainder of the toxin in Steve's system. Steve's almost back to normal. It won't be long before he signs himself out of the hospital and takes up his job on SHIELD Helicarier.

"I'm glad you're here. There's something I've been meaning to say," Steve begins.

"Me too. I—I—" Words die in his throat. The memory of pressing a kiss to Steve's brow dances before his eyes. Steve had been so sick. Maybe he won't even remember it. Tony chickens out. "You go first."

Steve gives him a look. "I keep thinking, it shouldn't take AIM and me getting shot," — Tony's heart skips a beat, but he just presses his lips together and listens —"for us to spend some time together. Like we used to."

"We're both busy people," Tony offers him immediately. The easy out. The thing he's been telling himself when he is lonely and Steve's somewhere across the world, doing his own thing, running his own secret missions. Excuses for why Steve doesn't need him, doesn't want to be on the team with him. It's the only way he can keep his emotions at bay.

"That's nothing new," Steve says flatly. His hand clenches the cover again, and Tony blinks at it, processing. Steve can't be hurting, not anymore, so why— Why does he clutch nervously at the covers, as if something pains him still. "If things are too different for you now, I'll— I'll try to understand. From my end, I still want the same things." He waits a few beats, and when Tony is silent, asks, "What were you going to say?"

Tony thinks about the way Steve had carded his hand through Tony's hair after they crashed to the ground, checking up on him. It had been his first conscious movement, as natural as breathing. Tony can tell himself that Steve is a protector by nature, that he would do that for anyone. Or he can stop running from the truth. He and Steve had something special together, until it was ruined. Until he ruined it. He doesn't know if he can ever have it back.

Tony stares at the covers, slowly lifts his eyes to meet Steve's. "I missed you," he says, voice low. "I miss you running the team." There. Present tense. That longing never goes away.

Steve's expression turns uncertain. "Tony..."

"You're a busy person, right?" Tony flashes him a smile. "You have a country to worry about." It's what Steve told him, earlier, when he said he wouldn't be running the Avengers. It was Steve's excuse.

The silence stretches.

Finally, Steve says, "I think I forgot. I forgot what it's like to spend time with you." He _forgot_. It's like a cruel joke. Then Steve says, "I forgot how much I like it." Present tense.

Tony fights past the tightness in his throat. "If you like it so much, you could stick around for a while. Always a place for you in my house."

Steve's eyes brighten. "I'd like that," he says quietly. He stretches out a hand in Tony's direction. It doesn't shake, certain in its purpose, waiting. 

After a moment, Tony takes his hand and lets Steve pull him closer.

 

 **Fin.**  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the [Tumblr post](https://sheronwrites.tumblr.com/post/183034298904/north-northwest-to-nowhere-remix-word).


End file.
